A friend of mine is in the middle of training for his job. It's one of those training dealies where they make you go to a particular branch of the business - always in some godforsaken place where you would never actually go if you weren't being paid to do so - and they put you in a hotel - the only one for miles in said godforsaken place - until you truly learn what it is that you are supposed to be doing for them. Because they have cut you off from everything that could possibly be important to you - your real home, your family, friends and civilization - learning the job only takes about 6 or 7 weeks. So it's a good deal for them.
For my friend, it's slightly less of a good deal. Sure, he's getting some serious training to make him good at his job, and I'm sure his Hampton Inn Junior Executive Suite is very nice, only...he has to share it. He's a 29 year0old man, training for a management-level job, and he has a roommate. In a single.
Fortunately, my friend is a pretty happy dude, so this situation didn't really bother him much, until the day he was chatting with said roommate and his new boss, and they started discussing hobbies. The boss says,"You know, I like reading." Oh, that's nice. What do you like to read, mr. boss man? "You know, just stuff about serial killers."
[ROOMMATE]: "Wow - ME TOO!"
BOSS: "Oh yeah? Remember that time that John Wayne Gacy did such-and-such?"
ROOMMATE: "Classic."
...
And thus is my friend Chris doomed to sleeping with one eye open for the rest of his training period.
Rooming with someone is a lot like dating - if you are a normal human being, you know to hide certain things from the other person until they become more comfortable around you. Your complete knowledge of famed and lesser-known serial killers throughout history is one of those things.
Now, in the interest of Christopher's personal safety we are on a mission to find him something equally as creepy. The hope is that he can drive away the Dahmer-phile before something truly horrific happens.
So far, we've suggested that he start rabidly tearing through the Twilight series - not so much for the horror factor but because I would never trust a 29-year-old gentleman who reads softcore porn that magically hones in on some secret pleasure center in the tiny brains of adolescent girls.
Our other idea was to set him up with an "Adventures of Teletubbies" or some other 12-pager that only the very young or very simple would enjoy. We figure if just sits in a darkened corner, reading it over and over , and occasionally giggling to himself, "Not again, Tinky-winky!" he'll either scare the creepy roommate into submission or earn himself a lifelong weird-o friend.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Would a Darlene by any other name...
It's weird how much a name can mean.
When I was five or six years old, I really wanted my name to be Christina. I thought that was the prettiest, and that having such a name would equate to having a rainbow-colored glittery gown and possibly also being a mermaid. That's just what happens to people named Christina.
Kids with names like Bubba and Jeb have a different path carved out for them than kids who introduce themselves to their montessori school classmates as Zachariah and Llewellyn - who are themselves teased in high school by the Jasons and the Ashlees. Names mean something. It's not fair, and it's not right, but when was the last time you hired a lawyer named Tequila?
The importance of a name was cemented for me in high school. I went to private school in Georgia, which means I was surrounded by rich white people who had lived in the same town for generations. I guess those people eventually run out of inspiration for names, living in the same place for 8 thousand years, because a lot of recycling happens there (and believe me, not a lot of recycling happens in the south) - last names become first names, first names start to look like last names, middle names multiply, and everything is book-ended with numbers and honorifics. I actually went to school with a girl named Forrest (handed down by an extra-kind male relative, certainly), not to mention strapping young men with names like Mulford, Bentley and Johnson (heh).
These names were important to people in the south because they let everyone else know critical information, like who their momma's grand-pappy had been, and what buildings he owned (the name recycling extended to important landmarks, like highways and the local mental health center). Of course this public advertising of blood-lines still didn't stop some people from dating their cousins, but, we were on the Alabama border.
This past weekend, when I was back in the glorious south ruining Steeplechase (see other blog), we happened to tailgate next to a pretty rowdy crew. Four middle-aged women and one gray-haired man of indeterminate age and intelligence (he didn't say much and disappeared halfway through the day) had set up shop and were determined to keep the party going all. day. loooong. The ringleader, who started migrating over to our lot in the early afternoon, spent most of her time crowing such sweet nuggets of knowledge as:
"We're sorry, but we ain't sorry for nothing!"
and
"She didn't steal my third husband - I gave him to her!"
I imagined she had read these on a set of refrigerator magnets or embroidered pillows at some sassy southern gift store, but they suited her. She wasn't really talking to us - just yelling to the crowd at large - but I think she got her message across, especially the part about being "NEWLY DIVORCED" - which seemed more directed at my dad than some of the other comments.
Between the four of them, these wild southern women seemed to have had 27 husbands (though some may have been pass-alongs - do they only count once?), 18 houses and more than a few frozen margaritas. They ended the day by tickling my dad with sunflowers and then hugging it out with him - while my mom quickly ushered us all into the car.
Before my mom could close the car doors (and, believe me, she tried), this ringleader - she of the southern-fried aphorisms and the vodka soaked (but friendly!) embrace - poked her head in to say thanks for the fun time. My mom said, "you're welcome."
[silence. did i mention my mom is the only sober person here?]
Woman: "Are y'all putting up those pictures you took today? On the Facebook? They were soooo fun."
Mom, mentally: "The ones of you rubbing my husband with various flora?"
Mom, out loud, "Oh...I don't really DO Facebook."
[another attempt at driving away, with or without the woman hanging from the door]
Woman: "Oh, yeah, I understand that. Would y'all e-mail them to me?"
Mom: "Um, okay. What's your e-mail?"
Woman: "Well, my name is Darlene and so it's...."
Darlene. God bless you, Darlene, and God bless the south, and God bless my mom for giving me the most boring name on the planet so that mean girls don't write blog posts about me.
When I was five or six years old, I really wanted my name to be Christina. I thought that was the prettiest, and that having such a name would equate to having a rainbow-colored glittery gown and possibly also being a mermaid. That's just what happens to people named Christina.
Kids with names like Bubba and Jeb have a different path carved out for them than kids who introduce themselves to their montessori school classmates as Zachariah and Llewellyn - who are themselves teased in high school by the Jasons and the Ashlees. Names mean something. It's not fair, and it's not right, but when was the last time you hired a lawyer named Tequila?
The importance of a name was cemented for me in high school. I went to private school in Georgia, which means I was surrounded by rich white people who had lived in the same town for generations. I guess those people eventually run out of inspiration for names, living in the same place for 8 thousand years, because a lot of recycling happens there (and believe me, not a lot of recycling happens in the south) - last names become first names, first names start to look like last names, middle names multiply, and everything is book-ended with numbers and honorifics. I actually went to school with a girl named Forrest (handed down by an extra-kind male relative, certainly), not to mention strapping young men with names like Mulford, Bentley and Johnson (heh).
These names were important to people in the south because they let everyone else know critical information, like who their momma's grand-pappy had been, and what buildings he owned (the name recycling extended to important landmarks, like highways and the local mental health center). Of course this public advertising of blood-lines still didn't stop some people from dating their cousins, but, we were on the Alabama border.
This past weekend, when I was back in the glorious south ruining Steeplechase (see other blog), we happened to tailgate next to a pretty rowdy crew. Four middle-aged women and one gray-haired man of indeterminate age and intelligence (he didn't say much and disappeared halfway through the day) had set up shop and were determined to keep the party going all. day. loooong. The ringleader, who started migrating over to our lot in the early afternoon, spent most of her time crowing such sweet nuggets of knowledge as:
"We're sorry, but we ain't sorry for nothing!"
and
"She didn't steal my third husband - I gave him to her!"
I imagined she had read these on a set of refrigerator magnets or embroidered pillows at some sassy southern gift store, but they suited her. She wasn't really talking to us - just yelling to the crowd at large - but I think she got her message across, especially the part about being "NEWLY DIVORCED" - which seemed more directed at my dad than some of the other comments.
Between the four of them, these wild southern women seemed to have had 27 husbands (though some may have been pass-alongs - do they only count once?), 18 houses and more than a few frozen margaritas. They ended the day by tickling my dad with sunflowers and then hugging it out with him - while my mom quickly ushered us all into the car.
Before my mom could close the car doors (and, believe me, she tried), this ringleader - she of the southern-fried aphorisms and the vodka soaked (but friendly!) embrace - poked her head in to say thanks for the fun time. My mom said, "you're welcome."
[silence. did i mention my mom is the only sober person here?]
Woman: "Are y'all putting up those pictures you took today? On the Facebook? They were soooo fun."
Mom, mentally: "The ones of you rubbing my husband with various flora?"
Mom, out loud, "Oh...I don't really DO Facebook."
[another attempt at driving away, with or without the woman hanging from the door]
Woman: "Oh, yeah, I understand that. Would y'all e-mail them to me?"
Mom: "Um, okay. What's your e-mail?"
Woman: "Well, my name is Darlene and so it's...."
Darlene. God bless you, Darlene, and God bless the south, and God bless my mom for giving me the most boring name on the planet so that mean girls don't write blog posts about me.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Scared
I've always hated "scary" things. Haunted houses, slasher films, ghost stories - all seemed like a horrible way to waste time and lose sleep. For weeks.
At sleepovers, a supposed friend would invariably suggest telling scary stories. "Wouldn't you rather talk about puppies and candy?"
The other girls would laugh, and because, like most 9-year-olds, they were twisted little gremlins, they would choose to discuss gore and shrieks over cuteness and joy. The ghost stories would start, and I would have to find increasingly creative ways to not listen.
"The girl heard another scream coming form beneath the house and - "
"Man! I'm hungry - sorry guys, but does anyone want cookies? No? Oh, you can keep going, don't wait - I'll just be in the kitchen."
I would then play dumb with myself about where the cookies were. (In the garage? No? Weird!) and spend a good 15 minutes architecting a still-life-ready platter of assorted snacks. Bathrooms were also good places to hide out, and I'm sure I got a reputation as the sleepover invitee you need to buy extra toilet paper for.
When I ask other people why on earth I would ever intentionally get scared, they almost always answer, "Because it's fun!" This is a lie. Being unable to go anywhere in the dark for fear of a chainsaw wielding maniac is not fun to me. Suffering crushing paranoia every time I look away from a mirror and look back - with the expectation that a ghouly face will be there - is not fun. Crawling into bed with my parents when I was in HIGH SCHOOL because I actually feared a Signs-like alien invasion? Ask my parents - it was not fun.
I've almost swerved off the road coming back from a showing of Night of the Living Dead because I thought I saw a freaky zombie man standing on the shoulder of the highway. It turned out it was a speed limit sign and that I seriously needed glasses for night driving, but still, not fun.
Being old enough to pay rent and feed a dog does not make me any less terrified of stupid things. Having someone else in my bed every night kind of does, although, considering my boyfriend doesn't wake up when I repeatedly punch him for snoring, I'm not sure how much I trust his reflexes in the case of a zombie attack. So when he suggested last night that we visit "The Field of Terror" - a haunted corn maze and hayride, I was not particularly excited.
"That means we go outside? At night?"
"Yes, and then people scare us!"
"How is this fun again?"
I tried to explain to him that humans are not supposed to be outside at night in the dark. -"That's why early man moved into caves and started building fires," I told him. "To willingly go into the field of terror is just MOCKING EVOLUTION. Why would I do that?"
He laughed, and then he bought me a haunted corn maze token.
I had never been in a haunted corn maze before, but I had serious doubts as to its enjoyability for me. Haunted-ness aside, I don't like mazes. Getting lost, like getting scared, falls squarely in the "not any fun at all" column. If I am going into any kind of labyrinth, David Bowie and some muppets had better be in there, too, otherwise, I see no need for wandering around aimlessly in an enclosed space. That is what they do to lab rats. Do you think lab rats have a fun life?
We entered the corn maze through a giant flaming devil-head. At least, I think that was the effect they were going for. It was definitely giant, and devil-looking. The "flaming" part, though, consisted of two red lights shining through holes in the eyes, and tiki torches placed on either side of the top.
Corn at night is scary, even with no one in it. In fact, it might be even scarier with no one in it. With screaming groups of teenagers everywhere, it kind of loses its edge. I found solace that night in the idea that, if there was a monster attack, the monsters, like lions of the Serengeti, would probably pick off the weak (i.e. the children and the very many TOTALLY HIGH people) first.
Every 20 yards or so, a structure would loom up out of the corn, and we would be forced by creepy clowns or grinning goblins to walk through places like "The Meat Locker" or a bus inhabited by multiple Freddy Kruegers. These people were scary, but probably not in the ways they intended.
Because I hate scary movies, I have never seen any of the Freddy Krueger oeuvre. How can I be scared of someone that I've never seen in action? For all I know, he brings children candy and then frolics off to help the elderly (though I have doubts). The other creepy-crawlies - the clowns and the chainsaw men - I also don't understand. My dad uses a chainsaw. He's weird, but he's not super-terrifying. And clowns are stupid. I worked with a clown once, at a summer camp. He was frequently too sad to come into work - which was eerily ironic, but not scary.
The scary part was that there were enough people in this middle-of-nowhere town in New Jersey who were willing to be Freddy Kruegers and scary clowns in a corn field every night for a month. It's not hard work, but I'm sure it's must be mentally taxing - the constant screaming, the darkness, the smart-alecks who harass you in your own place of business. And the strobe lights, oh, the strobe lights.
I don't know when strobe lights became the official lighting of scariness, but a good 50% of the buildings we were forced through were lit up like a zombie rave. In fact, one of them was a zombie rave - instead of trying to scare us they simply waved us through a flashing hallway where a number of their black robed buddies were jumping up and down to a weird techno beat.
Where do these people come from? And why do they do what they do? I imagine the actors are all a) really into Halloween; b) really into scaring people; or c) super-excited drama geeks. I have seen all three types of person in action, and yes, they are much scarier than clowns or skeletons or corpsey-looking-whatever-they-ares (It looked like the costume department had gotten kind of picked over by the end. Plaid shirts are not the height of fashion, it's true, but they do not particularly give me the willies.). I fear them because they do not understand that fear is bad, that humans should not enjoy seeing blood and hanging out in the dark, unprotected from the elements. Also, I hate fun.
At sleepovers, a supposed friend would invariably suggest telling scary stories. "Wouldn't you rather talk about puppies and candy?"
The other girls would laugh, and because, like most 9-year-olds, they were twisted little gremlins, they would choose to discuss gore and shrieks over cuteness and joy. The ghost stories would start, and I would have to find increasingly creative ways to not listen.
"The girl heard another scream coming form beneath the house and - "
"Man! I'm hungry - sorry guys, but does anyone want cookies? No? Oh, you can keep going, don't wait - I'll just be in the kitchen."
I would then play dumb with myself about where the cookies were. (In the garage? No? Weird!) and spend a good 15 minutes architecting a still-life-ready platter of assorted snacks. Bathrooms were also good places to hide out, and I'm sure I got a reputation as the sleepover invitee you need to buy extra toilet paper for.
When I ask other people why on earth I would ever intentionally get scared, they almost always answer, "Because it's fun!" This is a lie. Being unable to go anywhere in the dark for fear of a chainsaw wielding maniac is not fun to me. Suffering crushing paranoia every time I look away from a mirror and look back - with the expectation that a ghouly face will be there - is not fun. Crawling into bed with my parents when I was in HIGH SCHOOL because I actually feared a Signs-like alien invasion? Ask my parents - it was not fun.
I've almost swerved off the road coming back from a showing of Night of the Living Dead because I thought I saw a freaky zombie man standing on the shoulder of the highway. It turned out it was a speed limit sign and that I seriously needed glasses for night driving, but still, not fun.
Being old enough to pay rent and feed a dog does not make me any less terrified of stupid things. Having someone else in my bed every night kind of does, although, considering my boyfriend doesn't wake up when I repeatedly punch him for snoring, I'm not sure how much I trust his reflexes in the case of a zombie attack. So when he suggested last night that we visit "The Field of Terror" - a haunted corn maze and hayride, I was not particularly excited.
"That means we go outside? At night?"
"Yes, and then people scare us!"
"How is this fun again?"
I tried to explain to him that humans are not supposed to be outside at night in the dark. -"That's why early man moved into caves and started building fires," I told him. "To willingly go into the field of terror is just MOCKING EVOLUTION. Why would I do that?"
He laughed, and then he bought me a haunted corn maze token.
I had never been in a haunted corn maze before, but I had serious doubts as to its enjoyability for me. Haunted-ness aside, I don't like mazes. Getting lost, like getting scared, falls squarely in the "not any fun at all" column. If I am going into any kind of labyrinth, David Bowie and some muppets had better be in there, too, otherwise, I see no need for wandering around aimlessly in an enclosed space. That is what they do to lab rats. Do you think lab rats have a fun life?
We entered the corn maze through a giant flaming devil-head. At least, I think that was the effect they were going for. It was definitely giant, and devil-looking. The "flaming" part, though, consisted of two red lights shining through holes in the eyes, and tiki torches placed on either side of the top.
Corn at night is scary, even with no one in it. In fact, it might be even scarier with no one in it. With screaming groups of teenagers everywhere, it kind of loses its edge. I found solace that night in the idea that, if there was a monster attack, the monsters, like lions of the Serengeti, would probably pick off the weak (i.e. the children and the very many TOTALLY HIGH people) first.
Every 20 yards or so, a structure would loom up out of the corn, and we would be forced by creepy clowns or grinning goblins to walk through places like "The Meat Locker" or a bus inhabited by multiple Freddy Kruegers. These people were scary, but probably not in the ways they intended.
Because I hate scary movies, I have never seen any of the Freddy Krueger oeuvre. How can I be scared of someone that I've never seen in action? For all I know, he brings children candy and then frolics off to help the elderly (though I have doubts). The other creepy-crawlies - the clowns and the chainsaw men - I also don't understand. My dad uses a chainsaw. He's weird, but he's not super-terrifying. And clowns are stupid. I worked with a clown once, at a summer camp. He was frequently too sad to come into work - which was eerily ironic, but not scary.
The scary part was that there were enough people in this middle-of-nowhere town in New Jersey who were willing to be Freddy Kruegers and scary clowns in a corn field every night for a month. It's not hard work, but I'm sure it's must be mentally taxing - the constant screaming, the darkness, the smart-alecks who harass you in your own place of business. And the strobe lights, oh, the strobe lights.
I don't know when strobe lights became the official lighting of scariness, but a good 50% of the buildings we were forced through were lit up like a zombie rave. In fact, one of them was a zombie rave - instead of trying to scare us they simply waved us through a flashing hallway where a number of their black robed buddies were jumping up and down to a weird techno beat.
Where do these people come from? And why do they do what they do? I imagine the actors are all a) really into Halloween; b) really into scaring people; or c) super-excited drama geeks. I have seen all three types of person in action, and yes, they are much scarier than clowns or skeletons or corpsey-looking-whatever-they-ares (It looked like the costume department had gotten kind of picked over by the end. Plaid shirts are not the height of fashion, it's true, but they do not particularly give me the willies.). I fear them because they do not understand that fear is bad, that humans should not enjoy seeing blood and hanging out in the dark, unprotected from the elements. Also, I hate fun.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Matches made in Heaven, vol. 1
Keith Olbermann (seriously? two n's?) and Seth Rogen.
Huh? What?
Yes. Listen to their deep, throaty, crazyperson growls. I am convinced they were created in the Jim Henson Creature Shop(pe) and then, to the great dismay of the puppeteers, managed to escape. The Olbermann character, originally intended for Sesame Street, was eventually replaced by Sam Eagle (see graphic a., below). Rogen was never truly replaced, but was fondly remembered during the creation of Snookums the giant monster creature.
These two need to do voice work on a father-son/buddy cop animated feature, stat. Entertainment demands it.
Figure a.:
RIGHT?!?!?
Huh? What?
Yes. Listen to their deep, throaty, crazyperson growls. I am convinced they were created in the Jim Henson Creature Shop(pe) and then, to the great dismay of the puppeteers, managed to escape. The Olbermann character, originally intended for Sesame Street, was eventually replaced by Sam Eagle (see graphic a., below). Rogen was never truly replaced, but was fondly remembered during the creation of Snookums the giant monster creature.
These two need to do voice work on a father-son/buddy cop animated feature, stat. Entertainment demands it.
Figure a.:
RIGHT?!?!?
Sunday, September 20, 2009
I just realized that I use the word "sexy" in 83% of these entries
But don't worry! Such a realization will not deter me from exploring the VERY IMPORTANT TOPIC that is on hand today.
I have been living in New York Cit-ay for about 2 and a half glorious years now, and, after much careful observation and note-taking and rampant judging, I am ready to share with you my very deep thoughts on a disturbing trend: people reading erotica on the subway.
We all know that the NYC Subway is a literal den (n. dark, underground place) of iniquity. However, while I may have adjusted to the idea that bums could pee on me while I'm down there, I will almost certainly see puke and old people are probably going to grope each other (actually, no, I'm still not okay with that last one), I cannot wrap my head around the idea that the guy sitting next to me on my commute is reading crazy SEXY tales of sexiness and intrigue.
Who is this fun for? Nothing against intrigue and sexiness (and probably also pirates and/or lesbians and/or piresbians. Wait, that's not in your erotica?), but how can you really let yourself get super-excited about your delightfully saucy pirate lesbians when you're on a crowded train?
The 8:45 AM F train doesn't seem the best environment for, um, immersing yourself in the story. How will you really give due attention to all the little nuances of the story - the literary easter eggs that I'm sure are hidden throughout the text? Also, how do you feel sexy on a train? All kinds of strangers are touching you, and not in an interesting, naughty way, but more like in a creepy, smelly way. I just don't know how people get in the mood for this sort of thing.
Maybe they actually started reading the night before - in their boudoir, draped in velvet, or whatever would be appropriate - and the story was just SO GOOD they couldn't wait to see what happened next. Like, does the lesbian pirate queen fall for the manly wiles of Raul, the secret castaway and the only man for miles? I MUST KNOW.
A sound theory, but it still doesn't explain why people feel the need to reach the end of their tale RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. Have you people not heard of book covers? Paper bags? The kindle? Anything that will keep me from having to read titles like "Lesbian Pirates of the Future II: The Treasure is Buried Deeper This Time" first thing in the morning?
Or is that part of the excitement - knowing that people know what you're reading? Is it like the poor man's version of the Mile High Club, where the whole thrill is knowing that everyone else knows what you're doing, and that some poor sap has to sit next to you for the next three hours before landing in St. Louis?
What if it's more than just PART of the excitement, and some of these supposed erotica readers are actually deeply involved in "The Good Earth" but, for the sake of badassery and freaking others out, has replaced that book's cover with "Lesbian Pirates." Probably gives them more space on the crowded commute. In fact, next time you think you see me reading Head Bangers: An APF Sexcapade (Strebor Quickiez) by Zane, don't get freaked out -- I'm just trying to keep the real sickos from bugging me on my commute.
I have been living in New York Cit-ay for about 2 and a half glorious years now, and, after much careful observation and note-taking and rampant judging, I am ready to share with you my very deep thoughts on a disturbing trend: people reading erotica on the subway.
We all know that the NYC Subway is a literal den (n. dark, underground place) of iniquity. However, while I may have adjusted to the idea that bums could pee on me while I'm down there, I will almost certainly see puke and old people are probably going to grope each other (actually, no, I'm still not okay with that last one), I cannot wrap my head around the idea that the guy sitting next to me on my commute is reading crazy SEXY tales of sexiness and intrigue.
Who is this fun for? Nothing against intrigue and sexiness (and probably also pirates and/or lesbians and/or piresbians. Wait, that's not in your erotica?), but how can you really let yourself get super-excited about your delightfully saucy pirate lesbians when you're on a crowded train?
The 8:45 AM F train doesn't seem the best environment for, um, immersing yourself in the story. How will you really give due attention to all the little nuances of the story - the literary easter eggs that I'm sure are hidden throughout the text? Also, how do you feel sexy on a train? All kinds of strangers are touching you, and not in an interesting, naughty way, but more like in a creepy, smelly way. I just don't know how people get in the mood for this sort of thing.
Maybe they actually started reading the night before - in their boudoir, draped in velvet, or whatever would be appropriate - and the story was just SO GOOD they couldn't wait to see what happened next. Like, does the lesbian pirate queen fall for the manly wiles of Raul, the secret castaway and the only man for miles? I MUST KNOW.
A sound theory, but it still doesn't explain why people feel the need to reach the end of their tale RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. Have you people not heard of book covers? Paper bags? The kindle? Anything that will keep me from having to read titles like "Lesbian Pirates of the Future II: The Treasure is Buried Deeper This Time" first thing in the morning?
Or is that part of the excitement - knowing that people know what you're reading? Is it like the poor man's version of the Mile High Club, where the whole thrill is knowing that everyone else knows what you're doing, and that some poor sap has to sit next to you for the next three hours before landing in St. Louis?
What if it's more than just PART of the excitement, and some of these supposed erotica readers are actually deeply involved in "The Good Earth" but, for the sake of badassery and freaking others out, has replaced that book's cover with "Lesbian Pirates." Probably gives them more space on the crowded commute. In fact, next time you think you see me reading Head Bangers: An APF Sexcapade (Strebor Quickiez) by Zane, don't get freaked out -- I'm just trying to keep the real sickos from bugging me on my commute.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
I WILL get this job
This morning, I was indulging in a favorite pastime of the unemployed. Can you guess what it was? Yes, I was sitting, unshowered, at my kitchen table. And yes, I may have been using the internet and drinking coffee. I was not using recreational drugs or drinking a beer or curled in the fetal position under every blanket I own, but those are all very good guesses.
More importantly, I was perusing Craigslist! For Jobs! Isn't that quaint and so very unemployed of me?
And I think all of my unemployment problems are solved because look what I found:
Date: 2009-08-25, 11:10AM EDT
Reply to: info@sexification.com [Errors when replying to ads?]
Hello Hello
I just started a new site about 2 months ago. www.Sexification.com. It's doing very well. Around 200-250 readers a day, and growing. We have had a few good women columnist, but I'm looking to expand and maybe hire a stable women columnist that the readers can relate to and build a relationship with.
It goes on, mostly filling in two paragraphs of space with the word SEXIFICATION all in caps like that. I will remember this space-filling technique for my next 5-page essay assignment.
Guys, I don't know what SEXIFICATION is, but I think I can do it. I am stable, so, yay, first requirement fulfilled. I will oh-so-calmly and non-eratically perform SEXIFICATION on you, as a sexy women columnist. I don't know if that's a columnist for women or just little old me with multiple personalities (all sexxxxy), but I will soon find out, if I e-mail info@sexification.com. My first point of business will be to suggest that they change that e-mail to SEXinfo@sexificiation.com. See? -- Sexified.
More importantly, I was perusing Craigslist! For Jobs! Isn't that quaint and so very unemployed of me?
And I think all of my unemployment problems are solved because look what I found:
Sexy Woman Columnist Needed (Union Square)
Date: 2009-08-25, 11:10AM EDT
Reply to: info@sexification.com [Errors when replying to ads?]
Hello Hello
I just started a new site about 2 months ago. www.Sexification.com. It's doing very well. Around 200-250 readers a day, and growing. We have had a few good women columnist, but I'm looking to expand and maybe hire a stable women columnist that the readers can relate to and build a relationship with.
It goes on, mostly filling in two paragraphs of space with the word SEXIFICATION all in caps like that. I will remember this space-filling technique for my next 5-page essay assignment.
Guys, I don't know what SEXIFICATION is, but I think I can do it. I am stable, so, yay, first requirement fulfilled. I will oh-so-calmly and non-eratically perform SEXIFICATION on you, as a sexy women columnist. I don't know if that's a columnist for women or just little old me with multiple personalities (all sexxxxy), but I will soon find out, if I e-mail info@sexification.com. My first point of business will be to suggest that they change that e-mail to SEXinfo@sexificiation.com. See? -- Sexified.
Monday, August 31, 2009
The one person you do not want as your opponent in a deadly manhunt
I've thought about this a lot over the years. Some celebrities you really believe you could take on, were you forced to play The Deadliest Game: Larry King, Bob Dylan, most comedians, the Pope, etc. I think I even stand a fighting chance against a few professional athletes, like gymnasts (they're tiny!) and golfers.
Venus Williams, though, is not a person with whom I would willingly engage in hand-to-hand combat to the death. And neither would you, for the following reasons:
1) She is enormous. The woman is 6'1". If I stood on my dad's shoulders, we might make it to that altitude, but then Venus might be entitled to have Serena on her shoulders to make it fair, and we would still certainly die.
2) She is stunningly fast. Her legs are approximately 6 feet long (see "enormous," above). Her hunting me down would be like a greyhound chasing a corgi.
3) She has stamina. I might try to run from her, and she might even give me a head start, but I would get tired within a mile. Venus Williams could hunt you day and night without rest. She would run alongside your getaway train, if you managed to snag one, until it stopped the next town over, and then she would get you.
4) She makes terrifying noises. It's one thing to be running through the woods with a giant, muscle-bound, physically superior opponent on your tail. It's another when said opponent is making noises you've only ever heard on Jurassic Fight Club before. As Gerard put it, being on the other side of the net (or ahead of her in the final run of your life), must feel like being a fish and hearing the shriek of an Osprey overhead. It is the sound of something better than you come to put you out of your misery.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Cleaning Day
Today is cleaning day. It's always interesting to see just how much filth you've been living in.
We have soap scum; that's a given, and I was prepared for it. I was not prepared for soap scum IN COLORS. I watch TV. I've seen the horror movie-lite commercials starring soap scum as a ravenous world-destroyer and bane of moms everywhere, and I've seen said soap scum depicted in a variety of ways: claymation, animation, very scientific microscope close-ups, but I've never seen it depicted in orange. Most of ours is very orange, though we do have some lovely blacks, greens and clear-ishes as well.
Never fear, dear readers -- I've eradicated the orange plague for now. Everything on our floor is another story, however.
Through some fault of mop, mop liquid or mop-handler, all the dirt, hair and flotsam that was once on our floor is...still on our floor, now stuck there under a shiny, tacky layer of cleaner. It's like the world's worst decoupage project, preserving all the elements of our life that we'd much rather forget.
We have soap scum; that's a given, and I was prepared for it. I was not prepared for soap scum IN COLORS. I watch TV. I've seen the horror movie-lite commercials starring soap scum as a ravenous world-destroyer and bane of moms everywhere, and I've seen said soap scum depicted in a variety of ways: claymation, animation, very scientific microscope close-ups, but I've never seen it depicted in orange. Most of ours is very orange, though we do have some lovely blacks, greens and clear-ishes as well.
Never fear, dear readers -- I've eradicated the orange plague for now. Everything on our floor is another story, however.
Through some fault of mop, mop liquid or mop-handler, all the dirt, hair and flotsam that was once on our floor is...still on our floor, now stuck there under a shiny, tacky layer of cleaner. It's like the world's worst decoupage project, preserving all the elements of our life that we'd much rather forget.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
This is what happens when I'm left alone with the dog for 5 days
It's refilling its bladder right now, so I have to be quick.
Just have to point out that I LOVE THIS WEB SITE:
"But thelaurenbell!" you may protest, "First of all, man have the Internets missed you! But also, that's just a shitty off-price furniture Web site! There aren't even cool graphics or ridiculous slogans! WHYYYY?"
Well, thanks, dear readers, and, yes, I know. However! A person with the will and the wallet to do so may buy a TIKI HUT on this site. Or more than one, in a variety of shapes and sizes. You could build a whole tiki village, filled with villagers and/or neighboring children paid off with ice pops in which to live out any and all of your tiki fantasies.
This idea tickles me. As does the memory of a particularly stirring episode of the OC, in which Ryan builds a tiki sex hut on the beach for a night of (presumably awkward) passion with Marissa Cooper. God, I love that show.
Speaking of shows, here I have a segue about one: the other reason why I love this Web site is because they are selling a "Michael Scott" line of furniture. I like to think these simple wood-hewn pieces are meant to evoke the Michael Scott character from The Office (see! another show! segueeeeee). This, too, tickles me.
Not having seen most of the latest season of The Office, I can only assume that these products are actually a bizarr-o commercial tie-in to an episode arc wherein Michael leaves the company to become a cabinet-maker. During commercial breaks, when they're telling you to read Dwight's blog and look inside Creed's fridge, they added a bit exhorting viewers to actually buy Michael's $800 tables. Good work, NBC. I am now going to search this site for electric mixers endorsed by Ben Linus from Lost. Because...I dunno, I was looking for other character names, but I really like the evil crazy that is Ben. Whatever.
Friday, May 22, 2009
I stopped caring about real-life, so now I have to care about blog life again
Hey! Remember that time I had a blog? And it was so funny and witty and everyone loved it and read it every day? That was fun!
But then I discovered the sordid pleasures of TV and yoga and eating dinner while sitting -- with people! -- instead of hunched over at my desk (I guess technically still sitting), and the whole enterprise went to HELL. I apologize.
Now, though, I have a dog -- a furry poop machine of my very own -- and I cannot be bothered with "people" or "exercising" or "actually putting on clothes before walking into broad daylight."
Today, which was only day three of the Great Puppy Experiment, I left my apartment at 6:30 in the morning wearing flipflops, my boyfriend's old basketball shorts and a tank top that was not built to withstand the harsh rays of the sun. I actually spoke with another human being looking that, while holding a massive handful of steaming dog poo. No, no, I haven't lost all shame -- it has been ripped from me like the arm of a medieval torture victim (you know, when they do that thing with the horses running in different directions? no?), and I will never get it back.
That's okay, though. If there's one thing I have learned from perusing the World Wide Web, it's that shame can only hold you back. Now that I no longer care about real-life, I can focus all my efforts on the secret, sexy life of Internet superstarletawesomeperson thelaurenbell. You're welcome.
But then I discovered the sordid pleasures of TV and yoga and eating dinner while sitting -- with people! -- instead of hunched over at my desk (I guess technically still sitting), and the whole enterprise went to HELL. I apologize.
Now, though, I have a dog -- a furry poop machine of my very own -- and I cannot be bothered with "people" or "exercising" or "actually putting on clothes before walking into broad daylight."
Today, which was only day three of the Great Puppy Experiment, I left my apartment at 6:30 in the morning wearing flipflops, my boyfriend's old basketball shorts and a tank top that was not built to withstand the harsh rays of the sun. I actually spoke with another human being looking that, while holding a massive handful of steaming dog poo. No, no, I haven't lost all shame -- it has been ripped from me like the arm of a medieval torture victim (you know, when they do that thing with the horses running in different directions? no?), and I will never get it back.
That's okay, though. If there's one thing I have learned from perusing the World Wide Web, it's that shame can only hold you back. Now that I no longer care about real-life, I can focus all my efforts on the secret, sexy life of Internet superstarletawesomeperson thelaurenbell. You're welcome.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
2 quick things
so that I'm not a total failure at April.
1) Our office manager has a candy bowl on his desk. I call it that only because it is a bowl filled with candy, and not because it is a purpose-specific hand-etched crystal that Gracious Home would try to sell you for $32.50. This is important to note because if the fine founders of Gracious Home (I like to think that their last name is actually "Gracious") saw what was in the bowl today, they would undoubtedly have a conniption fit. Or possibly the vapors -- I'm not sure how old-timey they are.
In the bowl today are individual, unwrapped gummi bears, which one must scoop from the bowl with a plastic spoon. They're all stuck together in a little free-range gummi orgy, and if I see someone try to eat them, I will likely have the vapors myself.
2) I walked by a store that sells "Baby and Teen Furniture." Why no children? Does this store hate children? Do they really only like selling cribs and whatever it is that teens use? What IS it that teens use? I imagine these as things made of skateboards and old pizza boxes because I am 87 years old, but I cannot be sure. TEENS -- what is your furniture, and why do you demand special treatment?
1) Our office manager has a candy bowl on his desk. I call it that only because it is a bowl filled with candy, and not because it is a purpose-specific hand-etched crystal that Gracious Home would try to sell you for $32.50. This is important to note because if the fine founders of Gracious Home (I like to think that their last name is actually "Gracious") saw what was in the bowl today, they would undoubtedly have a conniption fit. Or possibly the vapors -- I'm not sure how old-timey they are.
In the bowl today are individual, unwrapped gummi bears, which one must scoop from the bowl with a plastic spoon. They're all stuck together in a little free-range gummi orgy, and if I see someone try to eat them, I will likely have the vapors myself.
2) I walked by a store that sells "Baby and Teen Furniture." Why no children? Does this store hate children? Do they really only like selling cribs and whatever it is that teens use? What IS it that teens use? I imagine these as things made of skateboards and old pizza boxes because I am 87 years old, but I cannot be sure. TEENS -- what is your furniture, and why do you demand special treatment?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Choices
Today is Haircut Day for thelaurenbell, and, in a manner befitting the always-prepared-to-the-point-of-boyscoutyness person that I am, I started looking for some ideas this morning.
After Googling "short hair cuts" (to fit the boyscout theme...?) I was directed to a site with pictures and whatnot. The best thing about this site is that it offered not one, but TWO pages of short haircut ideas: "short haircuts" and "cute short haircuts."
What a relief -- I was really in the market for a cut that hit somewhere in the middle on a scale of plain-to-hideous. Now I don't even have to LOOK at the cute versions, which would only confuse my poor little brain under its thatch of anti-cute hair.
After Googling "short hair cuts" (to fit the boyscout theme...?) I was directed to a site with pictures and whatnot. The best thing about this site is that it offered not one, but TWO pages of short haircut ideas: "short haircuts" and "cute short haircuts."
What a relief -- I was really in the market for a cut that hit somewhere in the middle on a scale of plain-to-hideous. Now I don't even have to LOOK at the cute versions, which would only confuse my poor little brain under its thatch of anti-cute hair.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Domino's
Know what I noticed today?
1) Google blogger does not automatically capitalize your "i"s.*
*[footnote in a non-footnote spot. don't care!]: False. I've noticed this before, but I really like complaining about Google. I assume that they spy on my every move and if I just mention something, their evil robot watchdogs will take note, eventually spurring them to stop their wackitude.
2) MORE IMPORTANTLY: When they mail you those totally sweet coupon sheets, Domino's Pizza addresses them to "Domino's Pizza Lover OR Resident of [address redacted]."
I think that is awesomely diplomatic of our good friends at Domino's. It's like saying, "This is a gift for my friend. Or -- OR -- for you, random person! Really, anyone, take it. We just CAN"T STOP GIVING."
For the benevolent Domino's cares not what particular pizza love you profess on the surface, but rather, what you hold in your heart -- which is the knowledge that, if offered to you at half-price and delivered right to your door, you would eat a pizza covered in rot.*
*[footnote in the right place]: Not that Domino's pizza is -- or even tastes like it is - covered in rot. It is magnificently delicious. Thank you, Domino's; I will now collect my royalty check.
1) Google blogger does not automatically capitalize your "i"s.*
*[footnote in a non-footnote spot. don't care!]: False. I've noticed this before, but I really like complaining about Google. I assume that they spy on my every move and if I just mention something, their evil robot watchdogs will take note, eventually spurring them to stop their wackitude.
2) MORE IMPORTANTLY: When they mail you those totally sweet coupon sheets, Domino's Pizza addresses them to "Domino's Pizza Lover OR Resident of [address redacted]."
I think that is awesomely diplomatic of our good friends at Domino's. It's like saying, "This is a gift for my friend. Or -- OR -- for you, random person! Really, anyone, take it. We just CAN"T STOP GIVING."
For the benevolent Domino's cares not what particular pizza love you profess on the surface, but rather, what you hold in your heart -- which is the knowledge that, if offered to you at half-price and delivered right to your door, you would eat a pizza covered in rot.*
*[footnote in the right place]: Not that Domino's pizza is -- or even tastes like it is - covered in rot. It is magnificently delicious. Thank you, Domino's; I will now collect my royalty check.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
USAUSAUSAUSA
I was walking past our friendly neighborhood porn store the other day, when a sign in the window caught my eye.
No, it was not the poster for Pirates II: Stagnetti's Revenge (a real movie -- whose title I googled for you, dear readers, to avoid the mistake of calling it Pirates II: [Some sort of pun about treasure chests], which would not have been very classy of me.).
The sign -- very small and handwritten on a scrap of cardboard -- said simply "European DVD on sale." This aroused [teeheehee] my curiosity. "Which European DVD?" I asked myself. "Of all the wonderful pornographic cinema exported by our dear trade partners across the sea, which classic film has, fortuitously, become affordable to even the poorest of nudie-film connoisseurs?"
But then, I wondered, Why promote a European DVD? We are in a national economic crisis, Serendib Video Place! Why not promote a good ol' American-made porno? Lord knows our proud porn-trepeneurs right here in the States could use a little help these days. Are our American "hot chicks" not good enough for you? Is there no demand for videos of strapping young PATRIOTS in action? I find that HARD TO BELIEVE.
Obviously, Serendib has some sort of unsavory deal happening -- probably with the French. So I urge you, my fellow Americans, do your part. Support the country. Buy American -- I promise Pirates II will not disappoint. There are probably explosions AS WELL AS sex. That's the American way.
No, it was not the poster for Pirates II: Stagnetti's Revenge (a real movie -- whose title I googled for you, dear readers, to avoid the mistake of calling it Pirates II: [Some sort of pun about treasure chests], which would not have been very classy of me.).
The sign -- very small and handwritten on a scrap of cardboard -- said simply "European DVD on sale." This aroused [teeheehee] my curiosity. "Which European DVD?" I asked myself. "Of all the wonderful pornographic cinema exported by our dear trade partners across the sea, which classic film has, fortuitously, become affordable to even the poorest of nudie-film connoisseurs?"
But then, I wondered, Why promote a European DVD? We are in a national economic crisis, Serendib Video Place! Why not promote a good ol' American-made porno? Lord knows our proud porn-trepeneurs right here in the States could use a little help these days. Are our American "hot chicks" not good enough for you? Is there no demand for videos of strapping young PATRIOTS in action? I find that HARD TO BELIEVE.
Obviously, Serendib has some sort of unsavory deal happening -- probably with the French. So I urge you, my fellow Americans, do your part. Support the country. Buy American -- I promise Pirates II will not disappoint. There are probably explosions AS WELL AS sex. That's the American way.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
WEIRD!
"i don't want to change my fucking password, assholes" does not produce any results when you search Google Help!
What kind of help is that?
Surely someone has had the exact same problem before and has sought to correct Google's unreasonable assumption that, just because my password is what they would deem "weak" (i beg to differ! it is AWESOME, the opposite of weak!), I would want to change it.
Seriously, Goog, who is trying to break into thelaurenbell.blogspot.com? Who? I scoff at the idea.
If anyone were to break into my account, I can only assume it would be to update my blog for me -- something that i am sure we would all appreciate. Thank you, Google, for foiling the good, secret deeds of others by being the opposite of serviceable.
What kind of help is that?
Surely someone has had the exact same problem before and has sought to correct Google's unreasonable assumption that, just because my password is what they would deem "weak" (i beg to differ! it is AWESOME, the opposite of weak!), I would want to change it.
Seriously, Goog, who is trying to break into thelaurenbell.blogspot.com? Who? I scoff at the idea.
If anyone were to break into my account, I can only assume it would be to update my blog for me -- something that i am sure we would all appreciate. Thank you, Google, for foiling the good, secret deeds of others by being the opposite of serviceable.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
You're gonna want to read this post for at least 18 hours, baby
Reader, you have no idea how happy I am about to make you. Happier than any other blog. Happier than you dreamed you could be, before you met me. The happiest...ooooo, girl...you've ever felt. Sit back, and let the smooth smooth stylings of seminal 90s pop group Color Me Badd wash over your pretty eyes and ears.
Wow. Just wow, and you're welcome.
In case some of you are not technical geniuses like thelaurenbell and cannot watch this video, a brief narration follows:
Girl, I know you miss me. I miss you too, bAbY! Hey, I have an idea -- watch this dance video that my bros and I made, out by the railroad tracks. Doesn't it make you feel all warm and sexy-like?
No? Well, look girl, I know you're classy. How's about this giant office? You know, the one with the candles. Naw, girl, I didn't get those just for you -- we're a candle company -- but you can think that if you want. If it makes you feel sexxxxy.
My boys here, they got the "dangerous/sexy" thang covered. Doesn't being trapped in an elevator with a stranger give you the lovemaking tingles? You know I know it does.
So here's what we got, baby, a smorgasbord of pleasure. At home alone? Bam, got you covered. Boardroom? You know it. Elevator? Ohhhhh yeahhh. Party? Bring it on, lover! We'll go in this closet -- you know I'd go anywhere and everywhere for you!
Baby, we'll do it all night. "Until we both wake up." That's right, I can even do it when I'm asleep, that's the extent of my love for you. I love you so bad, baby, I will physically pleasure you far beyond the point of normal human endurance, until we are both exhausted and pray for a quick end. But I'll keep going because that's what a real man -- a man who loves his lady -- does. OooooOOOoooOOOoo.
Wow. Just wow, and you're welcome.
In case some of you are not technical geniuses like thelaurenbell and cannot watch this video, a brief narration follows:
Girl, I know you miss me. I miss you too, bAbY! Hey, I have an idea -- watch this dance video that my bros and I made, out by the railroad tracks. Doesn't it make you feel all warm and sexy-like?
No? Well, look girl, I know you're classy. How's about this giant office? You know, the one with the candles. Naw, girl, I didn't get those just for you -- we're a candle company -- but you can think that if you want. If it makes you feel sexxxxy.
My boys here, they got the "dangerous/sexy" thang covered. Doesn't being trapped in an elevator with a stranger give you the lovemaking tingles? You know I know it does.
So here's what we got, baby, a smorgasbord of pleasure. At home alone? Bam, got you covered. Boardroom? You know it. Elevator? Ohhhhh yeahhh. Party? Bring it on, lover! We'll go in this closet -- you know I'd go anywhere and everywhere for you!
Baby, we'll do it all night. "Until we both wake up." That's right, I can even do it when I'm asleep, that's the extent of my love for you. I love you so bad, baby, I will physically pleasure you far beyond the point of normal human endurance, until we are both exhausted and pray for a quick end. But I'll keep going because that's what a real man -- a man who loves his lady -- does. OooooOOOoooOOOoo.
Friday, February 6, 2009
SWEET VINDICATION
Starbucks coffee tastes like it was poured from a chumbucket full of ashes.
I have been trying to tell people this for YEARS, and they have never listened to me. Instead, they stare at me blankly, and I have to turn around all sadfaced and misunderstood and leave them to their horrible horrible coffe.
I ask myself, "Why do they not immeidately agree with me? Is it because they are not sure what 'chumbucket' means? Is it because they enjoy ashes? Do I not understand human tastebuds?"
But now I know that they are all fools, and I was RIGHT:
http://www.nydailynews.com/lifestyle/food/2009/02/05/2009-02-05_eight_oclock_coffee_beats_starbucks_dunk.html
I have been trying to tell people this for YEARS, and they have never listened to me. Instead, they stare at me blankly, and I have to turn around all sadfaced and misunderstood and leave them to their horrible horrible coffe.
I ask myself, "Why do they not immeidately agree with me? Is it because they are not sure what 'chumbucket' means? Is it because they enjoy ashes? Do I not understand human tastebuds?"
But now I know that they are all fools, and I was RIGHT:
http://www.nydailynews.com/lifestyle/food/2009/02/05/2009-02-05_eight_oclock_coffee_beats_starbucks_dunk.html
Thursday, February 5, 2009
NYT can't stop, won't stop
A NYT story about the death of Domino magazine describes its readers thus:
"crafty, handy young women — like Carrie Bradshaw but cooler, with fewer shoes, better values and a mortgage"
So, you mean...not at all like Carrie Bradshaw. You confuse me, NYT. The only similarity I can spot is...
WAIT
OMG, of course! They are all womennnnnn! How could I not have seen -- Carrie Bradshaw has ladybits, and so do these people! They're like peas in a pod! They're exactly the same!
And BONUS FOR YOU, you clever Times scribes, your random mention of a canceled TV show has made me want to read your newspaper more closely -- because I am a girlyperson too! Perhaps I will even forward this article to my "girlfriends," so that we can all teeheehee and nod our heads over the trueness and realness of it all while brushing each other's hair and tiling our bathrooms. Yayyyyyyyy!
.......................................................................................
Why do you DO this, NYT? Have I not chastised you enough? Can you please stop grasping at the thinnest of cultural straws in your attempts to be "with it?" Seriously. Reading the words "Carrie Bradshaw" made me want to pull out my own eyeballs 3 years ago, when they were vaguely culturally relevant. Stick to the facts -- you're almost good at that.
"crafty, handy young women — like Carrie Bradshaw but cooler, with fewer shoes, better values and a mortgage"
So, you mean...not at all like Carrie Bradshaw. You confuse me, NYT. The only similarity I can spot is...
WAIT
OMG, of course! They are all womennnnnn! How could I not have seen -- Carrie Bradshaw has ladybits, and so do these people! They're like peas in a pod! They're exactly the same!
And BONUS FOR YOU, you clever Times scribes, your random mention of a canceled TV show has made me want to read your newspaper more closely -- because I am a girlyperson too! Perhaps I will even forward this article to my "girlfriends," so that we can all teeheehee and nod our heads over the trueness and realness of it all while brushing each other's hair and tiling our bathrooms. Yayyyyyyyy!
.......................................................................................
Why do you DO this, NYT? Have I not chastised you enough? Can you please stop grasping at the thinnest of cultural straws in your attempts to be "with it?" Seriously. Reading the words "Carrie Bradshaw" made me want to pull out my own eyeballs 3 years ago, when they were vaguely culturally relevant. Stick to the facts -- you're almost good at that.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Fun with press releases
I got this press release today:
FINANCIAL TIMES ANNOUNCES APPOINTMENT OF GREG ZORTHIAN AS PRESIDENT OF THE AMERICAS
(And yes, it really was in that gigantic, awesomely important font. [!!!])
Dear PR people,
Do not scare me like that. For one, your font is shocking and uncalled for -- the sort of thing we reserve for EVERYONE IS DEAD, or CHEERIOS ARE DELICIOUS or similar, truly groundbreaking, headlines.
In your case, this wanton hyperbolicizing of a typed phrase is only appropriate if Mr. Zorthian has, indeed, taken his oath of office as ruling President of the Americas, thus trumping the combined powers of Barack Obama, the brothers Castro, Hugo Chavez and whoever stops ice skating and eating ham long enough to say he is in charge of Canada.
[aside to readers only: I totally had to use the power of the Internets to make sure Hugo Chavez was still a Latin American leader. It's hard to take someone else to task when you are stupid.]
If, PR People, Mr. Zorthian has been declared president of this general hemisphere, I will need a little more information. Please do not spend the rest of the release rambling on about his work history with the FT. Tell me the FACTS:
When can I expect humble little New York to be visited by our great new overlord? Is he benevolent? Is this all part of a nefarious alien scheme to appoint one of their own to Earhtly power? (Aliens love the letter Z, trust me.)
In conclusion: I hate press releases, but not as much as I hate aliens.
FINANCIAL TIMES ANNOUNCES APPOINTMENT OF GREG ZORTHIAN AS PRESIDENT OF THE AMERICAS
(And yes, it really was in that gigantic, awesomely important font. [!!!])
Dear PR people,
Do not scare me like that. For one, your font is shocking and uncalled for -- the sort of thing we reserve for EVERYONE IS DEAD, or CHEERIOS ARE DELICIOUS or similar, truly groundbreaking, headlines.
In your case, this wanton hyperbolicizing of a typed phrase is only appropriate if Mr. Zorthian has, indeed, taken his oath of office as ruling President of the Americas, thus trumping the combined powers of Barack Obama, the brothers Castro, Hugo Chavez and whoever stops ice skating and eating ham long enough to say he is in charge of Canada.
[aside to readers only: I totally had to use the power of the Internets to make sure Hugo Chavez was still a Latin American leader. It's hard to take someone else to task when you are stupid.]
If, PR People, Mr. Zorthian has been declared president of this general hemisphere, I will need a little more information. Please do not spend the rest of the release rambling on about his work history with the FT. Tell me the FACTS:
When can I expect humble little New York to be visited by our great new overlord? Is he benevolent? Is this all part of a nefarious alien scheme to appoint one of their own to Earhtly power? (Aliens love the letter Z, trust me.)
In conclusion: I hate press releases, but not as much as I hate aliens.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Why I love my bf
(Watching a preview for Milk)
BF: Okay, so I know he's supposed to be gay, but is Harvey Milk also retarded?
Me: Um...what?
BF: I mean, is he like, autistic or something? Why does he look like that?
Me: ...
BF: His face! Why is it like that!?
Me: Honey, I think that's just Sean Penn. That's what he looks like.
BF: No. That can't be. He's acting, right?
Me: No, that's just his normal face.
BF: Oh.
BF: Okay, so I know he's supposed to be gay, but is Harvey Milk also retarded?
Me: Um...what?
BF: I mean, is he like, autistic or something? Why does he look like that?
Me: ...
BF: His face! Why is it like that!?
Me: Honey, I think that's just Sean Penn. That's what he looks like.
BF: No. That can't be. He's acting, right?
Me: No, that's just his normal face.
BF: Oh.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
A complete inventory of my foodstuffs
- 3/4 cup of dry roasted mixed nuts
- 1/2 gallon orange juice
- month-old pancetta
- 5 lb. bag sour patch kids
I think this is funny.
And, until I figure out how to concoct a magical elixir from the above ingredients, that's all you get for today's funny. thelaurenbell has the plague, and the pressure upon her sinuses is actually pressing her nose back into her brain, killing the center of witty thought that lies precisely in that area of her noggin. huge problem. we're having all the world's leading experts look into it and hope to be up and running tomorrow -- or at least have a more exciting excuse for not writing, like land-roving future-shark invasions.
- 1/2 gallon orange juice
- month-old pancetta
- 5 lb. bag sour patch kids
I think this is funny.
And, until I figure out how to concoct a magical elixir from the above ingredients, that's all you get for today's funny. thelaurenbell has the plague, and the pressure upon her sinuses is actually pressing her nose back into her brain, killing the center of witty thought that lies precisely in that area of her noggin. huge problem. we're having all the world's leading experts look into it and hope to be up and running tomorrow -- or at least have a more exciting excuse for not writing, like land-roving future-shark invasions.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Your attention please
It has been brought to my attention that Gears of War is not, in fact, a role-playing game (or "RPG" for you in the know).
This, the greatest video game known to man (is that the correct terminology any more? Or should I just skip to "greatest creation ever to grace mankind's heretofore sad, empty and ultimately pointless existence?"), is known as a "third person shooter." [I researched that! For you, reader!]
THIS IS AN IMPORTANT DISTINCTION!
If I'm in the mood for pummeling people or monsters or peoplemonsters in the face with bullets for hours on end, I don't want to get distracted by personal decision-making, questing or intricate storylines. I demand ALL bullet-face-pummeling ALL the time. I don't have time to mess around with other nonsense!
This, the greatest video game known to man (is that the correct terminology any more? Or should I just skip to "greatest creation ever to grace mankind's heretofore sad, empty and ultimately pointless existence?"), is known as a "third person shooter." [I researched that! For you, reader!]
THIS IS AN IMPORTANT DISTINCTION!
If I'm in the mood for pummeling people or monsters or peoplemonsters in the face with bullets for hours on end, I don't want to get distracted by personal decision-making, questing or intricate storylines. I demand ALL bullet-face-pummeling ALL the time. I don't have time to mess around with other nonsense!
Monday, January 5, 2009
The Thespian
Oh, pardon me – I didn’t see you there.
What’s that? You feel like you’ve heard my voice somewhere? Why, thank you, yes, I’ve heard before that I have a very distinctive voice. Perhaps you’ve been to this bus stop before – I often carry on short, friendly conversations with my fellow passengers here, and you may have overheard. No?
Hmm...well, I didn’t want to say anything, but I have done a bit of voice acting in my time.
Oh yes, it is my great passion in life -- to give voice to those characters that have important things to impart to this world!
Yes, you’ll have heard me in some advertisements. Does, “Mmmm! How magnificently scrumptious!” ring a bell? That was a good one. And, of course, there was Disney's Hamlet meets Aladdin last Christmas. Every actor loves to play the Dane, you know! Haha. Ha. Yes.
No? Still not ringing any bells? Where have you heard my rich sonorous basso tones before?
Well, there was this one project I did -- a very special little endeavor that, I think, may have been the most important work of my career.
Yes, I was Wretch #3, Evil Sea Wraith and Exploding Kamikaze Monsters #47, 48 and 53 in the blockbuster role-playing game Gears of War. And I was damn good.
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